


Secret Faces of Damon Salvatore

by littleSophie



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M, Road Trips, Sexual Tension, Underwear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:52:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleSophie/pseuds/littleSophie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 2x22: during their road trip to find Stefan, Damon and Elena learn new things about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lingerie Breakdown

Afterwards, she'll always wonder why she hadn't been waiting for it to finally happen. So many months of desperate attempts to figure him out, this mess that he was, watching his every move and facial muscle to somehow decipher what he really felt. She even began to think, inconceivably, that she, Elena, was the only one who saw the real Damon, the only one with the ability to translate eyebrow-, eye- and smirk-things into motivations and thoughts. How was it possible that she never noticed how small the parts of him he showed to her really were?  
They are into the second week of the "Save the Ripper" mission and Elena begins to wonder if it is appropriate to feel this comfortable around your boyfriend's brother while roaming the country in order to save said boyfriend. Granted, Damon was trying his utmost to not let her get too worried and moody, still, she feels a little guilty about that time where she couldn't stop laughing about his stupid joke (a guy visits the doctor to get his balls examined and – ew, no self-respecting girl should have laughed about that one in the first place). Or the time when they sing-shouted a rather energetic version of "Stumbling In" while racing along the highway. Elena feels she should have been feeling embarrassed singing a love-duet, of all the possible songs!, with Damon and not enjoying it instead, and especially not getting all flustered and light-headed after hearing him declare "our love is alive" in a slow and velvety bass timbre. That particular incident had her so confused that she gave him the silent treatment for hours afterwards. And yes, she knows perfectly well that it was childish and it's really not his fault that she is apparently unable to keep her boundaries up around him. Even worse was the fact that he didn't press her about the sudden change in mood and she'd rather not dwell on the possibility that he understood perfectly what was going on. What bothers her so much with all of this is that it feels decidedly too much like being in a relationship. The silly, fun part even, the one that she and Stefan never really got to because life-threatening problems were going on all the fucking time. Which makes no sense whatsoever for aren't they in the middle of their most serious crisis right now? And she is worried, well scared shitless frankly, she really is, but a load of sorrow and danger like hers will numb you a little and Damon's imitation of James Dean is priceless and she is only 17 and most likely already on the road to insanity.  
This is her mindset on this particular morning and on top of it she's not been sleeping properly. Hunting your blood-crazed boyfriend and spending your nights in the same room as his brother will do that to you. She's perched tiredly on the rim of the bathtub, fighting with her knotted hair, so exhausted and this is why she just asks Damon to bring her the leave-in spray. Which she does.  
"Damon, can you bring me my leave-in spray? It's in the upper right corner of the suitcase."  
This is what she says, exactly. She registers a non-committal "humph" and resumes her hair-battle. It takes her all of two minutes to be sure that something's off because that's how long it would have taken him to do what she asked of him, in slow-mo. Only that Damon doesn't do slow-mo.  
"Damon?" she calls.  
Still no answer. Immediately her mind begins to list possible catastrophes that could have happened to him, this is her life after all. Understandably, she is not prepared for the sight that greets her when she all but rushes into the room. He's there alright, with no immediate danger apparent and so she heaves a sigh of relief. That's when she notices it. In his hands. Her bra.  
She feels enraged? Furious? Embarrassed? Vulnerable? Alive? Something and, a flow of insults on the tip of her tongue, her eyes slide up to his face. This is when she stops breathing in earnest.  
Right there, in front of her eyes, is the version of Damon Salvatore that she's never seen.  
He's smiling.  
Not smirking, half-smiling, scowling, pouting or one of the other endless expressions that she's seen his mouth make. No, this a real, honest to God, teeth-showing, cheek-hurting, eye-shining smile and she realizes he looks just like a boy who got his big Christmas wish granted. I'll never see something this beautiful again, she thinks, her heart wrenching painfully. He's looking at her now and his eyes are so overwhelmingly full of him, as if his heart were about to spill itself right there, down on the floor. Elena practically feels her skin melt away under the power of his gaze, it's too much and her own eyes drop down, back to his hands. For the first time, she notices exactly which bra he's holding; of course it had to be that one, her secret favorite. She remembers buying it shortly after the Miss Mystic pageant, when they had so much trouble with Stefan. Treating herself to a set of over-priced, decadent and possibly never to be worn lingerie is a habit of hers whenever life gets too messy and tragic. Something about purchasing such luxurious underwear has always given her back an illusion of being in control, being grown-up.  
She had been standing in front of the mirror, her breasts tightly encased in red silk, black lace adorning the seams, reaching all the way around her back, and deep in the valley that the bra created between her breasts shimmered a black pearl. Her mouth had been slightly parted as she was staring at her reflection, her back arching involuntarily, the delicious mounds clearly begging to be touched. There had been a flashing memory of Damon in her mind at the time, rendering her speechless with his eyes during their dance, and suddenly she had known, without a doubt: he would adore that bra. Afterwards, she was way too chicken to really ask herself why she was so hell-bent on buying that insanely expensive scrap of silk and lace.  
Now he's standing there, holding the very same piece of lingerie in his hands and with a sudden jolt in her lower belly, Elena notices that his thumbs are stroking the red silk of the cups in lazy, sensual circles. Oh dear God, she prays inwardly, please let him not have seen the panties or any of the other stuff for that matter.  
"My, my Elena, whatever happened to pastel-colored stripes?" he suddenly drawls, his usual lewd smirk back and firmly in place, her own image in various states of undress and lingerie as clearly visible in his eyes as if he would show her a picture show.  
Ok, so clearly he's seen it all - the matching panties with that little hole right above her bottom, the set with golden satin behind black lace, the one with see-through red and pink – god, she feels like a dirty minx listing them mentally. She remembers that time when he came to her room, giving her advice for handling blood-thirsty Stefan while simultaneously rummaging in her underwear drawer. At that time she had luckily been fast enough to shut the drawer before he came any further than her innocent pastel, official undies. The thought that he had now seen this secret side of her makes her head swim and her thighs tremble. Not even Stefan knows of her passion for seductive lingerie; his confession that he loves her girlish sets because he found anything more sexy to be weird and unnatural on young women prevented her from ever trying to seduce him in one of her more mature sets. She had wondered if that was his puritan, last century upbringing talking…  
"In case this is you, trying to find a new personality – I'm so approving of this one," Damon tells her now, because he surely remembers that day too.  
"I'm not – " she mumbles, "this is not -, I've had these for years-" She stops then, not sure why she felt the impulse to explain herself in the first place, it's not like her undergarments are any of his business.  
Suddenly he's walking towards her with his head slightly back, eyelids lowered, hips tilting just so, her bra still in his hands – looking like predator and prey at the same time.  
"Lies", he purrs, looking at her through lowered eyelashes. "I can smell that you've hardly worn these. Unless - " and the growing devilish glint in his eyes makes Elena search for something to support her, "this is your confidential stuff, of course." And he's so awfully close to the truth now that her mouth goes dry. Don't lick your lips, she commands herself, don't lick them! but it's no use; her tongue slips out as if on its own and the tiny sigh that escapes him makes her repeat it immediately.  
"Elena," he whispers, leaning imperceptibly closer, "why would you raid your secret lingerie stash for our little trip?"  
She had been packing hectically, so very much worried about Stefan, Damon waiting impatiently outside the house, and then she had opened that goddamn drawer, her hand automatically reaching for the neat cotton piles. Damon had chosen this exact moment to honk, possibly still a little pissed off that she had emotionally blackmailed him into taking her along on the trip, and the thought of being alone with him for possibly a very long time had made her grab for the hidden shiny piles at the very back of the drawer instead. She had taken them because she felt they would make her more confident, even if he would never see them. Just the idea of spending weeks and weeks with Damon while wearing cotton undies made her feel weak, inferior and so young and stupid. Really, it had felt like a good idea then. Right now, however, her inner sermon went something like: stupid, moron, stupid, fool, dumb, moron…..  
Finally she pulls herself together and he's standing there, still holding her favorite bra with an air as if he had taken it right from her body and she explodes helplessly in righteous anger.  
"You pervert! You have no right to look through my things! Take your hands from my stuff!" Then she does what she's best at when it comes to him: she swings her arm back and slaps him across the face, hard. Her hand's not even lost contact with his skin before he has her backed up against the wall, leaving just enough space between them that they're not technically touching. Elena still has a hard enough time telling her body to stay. the. hell. back.  
His mouth is directly at her ear now, urgent and rough. "You can deny it all you want, but we both know that this part of you – your anger, your dancing, your fists, your drunkenness, your secret love for slutty lingerie, hell, let's just call it the woman in you, she belongs to me! Go ahead, hit me if it makes you feel better – I can take it. But it won't change a thing."  
When he steps back lightly, his arms hanging at his sides, just the hint of a smirk on his face, she loses it. She's beyond reason now, her arms thrashing wildly at him, hitting, scratching, clawing while she hisses curses and nonsensical syllables at him, trying to wipe that smile of his face, but it only gets wider the longer she rages on. God, she's supposed to be worrying about Stefan above all, instead her mind is acting like a satellite, orbiting around him, all the damn time. She hates him for it so very much. Finally it's no longer clear if she's trying to hurt him or prevent herself from falling, if she's still swearing or just crying furiously, and he's staring at her the whole time, drinking her in while he's smiling again, really smiling, like there couldn't be any greater joy for him than watching her lose control. Elena's panting heavily, staring at him, and she wonders how she never searched for this smile, how he kept it from her for such a long time and how she seems to hold the power now to evoke it.  
There's no way I can stop this now, she thinks, her chest heaving, there is no way I could stop myself now from falling for him.


	2. Jealousy Tango

She questions her knowledge of Damon Salvatore for the second time on a Friday night. They are back to the playful banter at that point, after thoroughly ignoring what happened when he had discovered her underwear. Elena is still immensely relieved that he never brought it up again, but she assumes that he, too, is determined to hold a fragile truce between them. After all, they are in each other's company 24/7 and a ton of impossible to analyze tension between them is enough, no need to add emotional arguments to that mix. So the lingerie breakdown went the same way as the deathbed kiss: completely disregarded. She is a little surprised with herself because if she had to name one constant principle of hers it would be the conviction to face problems and discuss them. Until recently, that is. Right now, she's convinced that she simply never had such a tangled mess of a problem like she and Damon have now. A problem that is so scary and irrational that she wouldn't trust herself to talk about it. Where she can't guess in the slightest what she might say or do. A problem that, if faced, might not only turn her world upside down (she's already had her fair share of those and is now handling them like other people handle the obstacles of daily life). No, this one could turn her inside out and she's scared to death of what she might find there. Sometimes she remembers that she is still a teenager, that she's supposed to change and "find herself" right now, but she never gets around to it. Saving your friends and trying to maintain the balance of power in the world can really eat up your time.  
However, that doesn't change the fact that she is convinced Damon is now trying to figure out what underwear she's wearing, every morning. There couldn't possibly be another explanation for the scrutinizing looks he gives her now whenever she emerges fully clothed from the bathroom after her morning routine. She doesn't scold him though, since they would have to talk about what happened then. She always felt naked in his company most of the time anyway and, of course, she can't wear that bra anymore, it would feel like having his hands supporting her breasts. His fingerprints might as well be still visible on the red silk.  
They take course south when there is report of another mysterious "animal attack" in the northern outskirts of Louisiana. Since Caroline won over her mom, they have the advantage of hearing early about unusual accidents and getting to look at the official reports without any compulsion. Liz simply announces Damon as her investigator who specializes in these brutal slayings and they never face any problems. They are always hoping to discover something at these crime scenes, though Elena never gets to see them, of course; just a hint, a pattern, but so far it hasn't brought them anything. However, they have reason to expect something from this particular scene, Liz has mentioned that the officers found some scribbled notes.  
But after driving for the best part of 13 hours, Damon decides they're not going to make it in one day and so they stop in a small, insignificant town somewhere in South Carolina, quickly locating an equally insignificant but decent hotel to spend the night in. Elena contemplates the irony of the situation: just a little more than a year ago she always nagged her parents to spend their holidays in hotels and now she already feels like she's fed up with them for a lifetime. After a while they all start to look the same.  
It's only around 9 in the evening and since the air is warm and pleasant, they decide to take a stroll outside and maybe grab something to eat. It's quiet between them and anxious, at least on Elena's side. Thoughts of the coming day are heavy on her mind although she's trying to suppress them, true to her new philosophy in life. Since she's in desperate need of distraction, a colorful poster in the window of a shabby bar is enough to pique her interest. "Tango music & dancing tonight" it reads, in the worst designed scrawl she has seen in a while, but the bar seems to be almost crowed and the rhythmic wailing of an accordion from inside is tempting her.  
"Let's go in there, Damon", she tells him. "They'll surely have something to eat and we could watch people dancing."  
He eyes her up with a somewhat weird expression, one eyebrow up, the left corner of his mouth quivering.  
"You want to go in there?"  
Elena feels like she's missing some kind of joke here, but she'd rather not ask. She's becoming increasingly wary of all the ways that Damon is able to work innuendos in apparently innocent conversations.  
"Yeah, sure", she therefore returns. "Maybe it's even enough to distract me."  
He snickers shortly, mutters "figures" under his breath and then relents by holding the door open for her. The inside of the bar is dense with smoke, dimly lit and vibrating with chatter, the feverish melodies of the small band and the sharp tapping of the dancer's feet. The people seem to be around thirty and older for the most part, not looking too fancy in general either. Elena has her second moment of weirdness this evening when some male voice from the bar is suddenly shouting in their direction.  
"Oy, Damon! Great to see you! I'll tell Susanne that you're here!"  
She doesn't even have time to hiss questions in his ear before another man approaches them, a broad grin on his wrinkled face, a cloud of white, fluffy hair covering his head.  
"Well, look who's here! We were beginning to wonder if we lost you. That was a dull month without you, let me tell you." He then turns to her and extends his hand, together with a friendly smile. "And this is…?"  
"Elena, meet Robert, the owner of this sorry excuse for a bar", Damon promptly introduces them. "Robert, meet Elena, a …friend of mine", he adds with only a short moment of hesitation.  
"A friend, is it?" Robert seems to feel the unnecessary need to ask. "You don't have any female friends, Damon."  
"I'm making a special exception for her" Damon explains, his gaze on her causing heat to crawl up Elena's cheeks. Thankfully, Robert seems to be enough of a gentleman to not comment on that and instead offers to bring them something to eat from his wife's kitchen. When they finally settle at a table in the back, Elena with a plate of steaming soup in front of her, Damon with his usual tumbler of amber liquid, she simply turns towards him with an inquisitive look.  
"Geez, Elena", Damon rolls his eyes. "I do have a life outside of our little dullsville, you know. I happen to like this place, the music is acceptable and the crowd has few enough morals not to irritate me. So I've been down here a few times. Just my luck that you wanted to go in here."  
"Okay…" Elena slowly answers. "But why would you drive all the way down here just to be at a bar that you don't completely dislike? And it doesn't explain the fact that they all seem to know and actually like you, no offense." And before she can stop herself: "And who the hell is Susanne?"  
"Firstly, I'm constantly mystified how you and your little gang fail to see my greatness, no offense", Damon quips. " As you can see, other people have no such erratic behavior. I suspect these particular people seem to like me because I make it a habit of mine to light up this bar whenever I'm here, figuratively speaking, mind you. Secondly, if you're wondering why I would put up with long distances simply to get here, it just goes to show that you never tried to find a good Tango partner. Which brings me to your last questions," he smirks at her, but then his eyes fixate something above her shoulder and his mouth widens. "And this is – Susanne."  
Her first impressions is that she probably would have liked this woman under different circumstances, Susanne's face is remarkably open and the warmth of her smile hints at a generous nature. As it is, the slender woman in her late-thirties is a bit too attractive for her taste, her blue dress a little too tight and the voluminous bun of honey colored curls at the nape of her neck looks a tiny bit too promising. Elena chokes a little on her soup when Damon immediately envelopes the woman in a tight embrace, lifting her almost off the floor. Worse still, this Susanne woman practically squeals with delight to see him, exclaiming "Finally!" in a much too happy voice.  
"You have no idea with what guys I had to make do in your absence! You do realize that you basically owe me the whole evening as an apology, don't you?"  
Damon's answering smile is nauseatingly heartfelt. "I'll make it all up to you", he promises. Adds "all of it" in a suggestive drawl and this Susanne unbelievably has the restraint not to blush. After a friendly but distracted "Hey!" to Elena, she begins to drag Damon towards the band on the other side of the room. "Wait!" Elena calls after him, unable to help herself. "What are you-", but he just throws her an apologetic glance, gestures "I'll be back" and makes his way through the dancing crowd. She's not hungry anymore as she watches him greet the musicians like his long lost family, shaking hands (!), clapping backs(!) and even going so far as to give the old violinist an affectionate man hug! They seem to discuss something for a few minutes, then he gives her a lopsided grin over his shoulder and begins to gesture animatedly after he turns back. The musicians just nod repeatedly while Susanne sports a small contented smile until finally one of them slowly quiets the crowd with repeated shouts of "Guys, guys!"  
"Since we have one of our favorite guests here tonight, we allowed him to make a song wish. And before you ask, no, none of you others gets one so don't bother trying!" He's interrupted by shouts, whistles, laughter and the yelled greetings of several other people who, miraculously, also seem to know Damon. With all the animated faces around her, Elena begins to feel like the only one in the room who is not having the time of her life. Or it could be that she's simply not drunk enough.  
"So, as a special treat to Damon", the musician goes on, ruthlessly shouting down the crowd. "We give you – the Jealousy Tango!"  
While the people are cheering loudly, she feels Damon's eyes on her again and reluctantly raises her head to meet his gaze. His smirk is shameless as he points two fingers to (at?) his forehead which is obviously his way of telling her to stop frowning. The distinctive feeling that this song is somehow also dedicated to her is highly uncomfortable. Right then it gets eerily quiet in the bar, the tension palpable as everyone clears out a large circular space in the middle into which Damon and Susanne stroll lazily. Elena's heart is picking up a painful beat as his arm slides around the woman's slender waist, pulling her so close that her high heeled foot slips between his legs, her nose resting at that sweet place where his shoulder and neck meet. When they both close their eyes, Elena has to take a quick sip from Damon's liquor, throat and eyes promptly burning. Everyone seems to be waiting with baited breath when finally a single violin releases a high, wailing note in the silence.  
What follows is hard for her to put in clear descriptions and correct sentences afterwards, despite the fact that she can feel all her senses working overtime. Watching them dance is one of the rare occasions when she really feels so invested in the moment that there's not one part of her that judges from the outside, already filing the experience away for later memories. On the contrary, she's so caught up that she's not even completely aware of herself standing up, leaving her table and coming to watch from the edge of the circle. She tries very hard not to blink as their bodies glide across the floor, twirling, freezing, bending, spinning, leaping, dipping and tensing with a grace that is almost painful to witness. At times they only hang at each other's fingertips, then again they're so closely intertwined that Elena very nearly feels the heat herself. Invisible ropes seem to bind the two dancers together at all times, tense for a few seconds when they're facing each other, every muscle and fiber strained and loose again when they're eagerly melting against each other, not even a hairbreadth of space between them. Even their eyes share an unwavering look but who's initiating the figures is impossible to determine. If Elena had any doubts before regarding the nature of their relationship, they're gone now. She's no fool, she knows that there's only one way to get this familiar and in tune with another's body. To share every possible connection and action that two different bodies can have and thinking of those makes her a little dizzy. Despite being breathtakingly beautiful, this dance is also a kind of foreplay that surpasses every daring fantasy she ever had. This is what Elena imagines watching porn must feel like: a little disturbing because it's so private, but impossible to look away from. Only that this must be indefinitely better, and a thousand times more arousing. She feels slightly feverish now, her cheeks burning and she's apparently unable to stop gulping air. The thought of being curled so inseparably around Damon's body, like Susanne is now, of having him pressed so close against her back that she can feel his pulse beating, like Susanne is surely doing now, provokes a dull throbbing in her limbs. Then there's that moment when Susanne's bun gets loose during an outward spin and it looks like the half meter of honey colored glory will whip Damon in the face. Which is almost comical but only until he simply twines the hair together and winds it one, two, three times around his wrist before pulling her in an impossibly deep dip that exposes the long graceful line of her neck right in front of Elena. In the attempt to recollect her wits, she lets her gaze stray to the other guests which turns out to be a really dumb idea. Most of the woman are subconsciously swaying their hips and most – no, scratch that, all of them are watching with a lusty, unguarded look that she desperately hopes is not showing on her face too. The song is nearing its ending now with a maddening pace, Susanne has her leg hitched around his hip as he takes her for a last dizzying spin before lowering them both for the final pose. And now finally, at last, his eyes find hers over the shoulder of his dance partner and if she ever felt his eyes were intense, she has no idea what descriptive word to use now. They look positively crazed with desire, hypnotizing her, filling her whole vision until she feels her knees buckle as she is, in fact, literally, pathetically losing her balance under his stare. Desperate to uphold at least some kind of composure she spins around and pushes through the crowd in the assumed direction of the ladies room.  
The battered door swings shut behind her as she grips the cool sink with both hands, thankful for the little temperature drop after the smoky, stifling bar room. The face in the tarnished mirror looks back at her with big, foreign eyes, wanting and unhinged.  
This can't be happening, her mind is screaming at her, get a fucking grip on yourself, it's only tango, goddamn it! You've seen him dance before, remember? Well, yes, she has, but that had been at school dances and beauty pageants, when he was at least trying to follow the etiquettes. Not that she had been unaffected by it then but tonight she has seen him in all his unleashed, unrestrained glory and her stupid, hormonal body is still reeling.  
Suddenly the door bursts open again and a group of women enter, bringing with them a cloud of perfume, sweat and excited chatter. They're obviously talking about the dance, trying to express their adoration for it with an obscene amount of swear words and exclamations while they scurry around the mirror to touch up their make-up. When it's getting obvious that there's no foreseeable end to the suggestions what they would do with "that hottie" if given the chance, Elena decides that she's not going to get a clear head by staying in here any longer and cautiously makes her way back to the bar.  
Another song is playing already, the accordion pumping its intoxicating rhythm and the dance floor is packed again, thrumming with heightened excitement and loosened inhibitions. So obviously Damon, who's still dancing with Susanne in the midst of the crowd, wasn't kidding: he does set this club on fire. She picks her way towards the table again, deciding that she better not watch anymore of his "moves, that she has never seen before!", damn him, really, God. damn. him. However, she still takes another sip of his drink, carefully measured though ,because she feels the results could be disastrous if she gets drunk tonight. Instead she watches the other dancers, trying to collect herself again and to reassert her aloofness by judging them mentally and finding ridiculous movements. It's not working though because most of them are really carefree and unselfconsciously enjoying themselves which makes it hard to find them ludicrous. It also reminds her of the fact that she's sitting alone at a table, increasingly feeling like the awkward wallflower at her first party who doesn't know what to do with her hands. Right when she decides to probably get drunk anyway, that bar owner, Robert, is slumping on the chair next to her. He scrutinizes her for a moment, then:  
"This was your first time, wasn't it? It's a bit overwhelming if you haven't seen them dance before. Even I feel a little stunned every time. They harmonize really good."  
Elena releases a shaky breath. "Yeah, maybe that's a bit of an understatement, right?" He chuckles dryly.  
"I remember the first time he was here, must've been be a year ago now. He was so full of anger back then, downed half a bottle of our best bourbon and then simply dragged Susanne onto the dance floor. That was quite rude, come to think of it", he chuckles some more. "But after that it was magical, really. I've never seen such an instant connection between two dancers before and I've been running this bar for quite a time, let me tell you. Back then, Susanne was not in good shape, my son had already died in that cursed accident – " he nods once when she mumbles something apologetic. "Well, that's beside the point now, but fact is she was a little mad with grief and then this guy, looking a bit deranged himself, just grabbed her and danced with her as if there was no tomorrow. She simply let loose, you know, let him lift her in figures that I've never even heard of. It looked as if they were feeding of each other," Elena winces a little at the choice of word. "His anger, her grief, they seemed to push it onto each other. Tango is great that way, you see, it welcomes all of your pain and finds an expression for it. You'll never be better than when you're completely crushed and down and the best dancers are always the ones with the most cruel heartbreaks. I don't know anything about Damon's past, of course, but if his dancing is any indication it must have been the worst."  
He's wearing a mused expression now as he watches the dancing pair on the floor.  
"Anyway, something must've clicked inside her then, she was not so numb anymore, started to throw things around and yell at people randomly. It was a relief, honestly, and she's become gradually better since then. Who'd have thought after all the hot teas, friendly shoulders and tons of doctor appointments, that all it took was some heady tango dancing with a stranger. Which is why I'll be eternally grateful to Damon – and also because he's pleasing my crowd, of course.", he finishes with a twinkle in his eye.  
While Elena's still trying to process everything he told her, his shrewd eyes suddenly turn on her.  
"Really, here I am, boring you with the musings of a codger, old age will do your manners no good, let me tell you. So what about you, Elena, did you ever have the pleasure of dancing Tango with him?"  
"Oh no", she says, maybe a little hastily, "We're really only friends, so no – I mean, not that you have to-, but no, I'm dating his brother, actually. And I don't know anything about Tango, anyway."  
"Ah", is all that he says, but it sounds an awful lot like understanding and pity. After a small pause he continues in a more enthusiastic tone: "Maybe I can at least help you with the last obstacle."  
Unsure what he means, she sends Robert a quizzical look.  
"Well, I might not be such a brilliant dancer like Damon but I'm quite the Tango veteran nonetheless and it would be my pleasure to show you the basic steps."  
She gratefully accepts his offer, since it sure doesn't look like Damon will spare her another look this evening anyway. Robert leads her to a clear space a little to the side and sets about showing her the fundamental rhythm of Tango, along with the very first steps. It doesn't take long for Elena to actually enjoy herself and become determined to master what he's showing her. The way Robert explains everything to her, with the air of a well-meaning, indulgent grandfather, makes her feel confident and unashamed for the first time this evening. When Elena asks him to show her how to do the dip, he has to decline though, saying that his back wouldn't allow him to any more. Instead he declares her to be ready for her first round of real dancing with him and promptly leads her further onto the dance floor. It's a slow Tango, only one violin, one accordion and a guitar are playing, Robert is guiding her gently and securely and everything could feel really pleasant if they weren't dancing so awfully close to Damon and Susanne now. Elena's does her best not to get distracted, to stay concentrated on her own partner, but it's terribly difficult when Susanne's head is nestled so intimately in the side of his neck and their hands are restlessly, tenderly moving around each other. Once she catches his eyes during her quick, covert glances and the small kind smile he gives her makes her question if she probably just imagined his passionate look earlier.  
When the dance ends, she somehow manages to politely thank Robert before making her way to the table, feeling thoroughly defeated all of a sudden. For a while she continues watching Damon, who is now rapidly changing partners, but when she catches herself thinking "some of them are not even pretty" in a rather vile inner voice, she decides to stop, right this minute. This is not the Elena she knows, the one who likes everyone on principle and never ever judges any girls by their looks. She would possibly analyze why Damon sparks such untypical feelings in her, but then she had to admit to what extent he seems to affect her and that's her "scary, don't-go-there" issue, so instead she lets her head sink on the table top and closes her exhausted eyelids.  
The next thing she notices are two arms, slipping under her body and gently lifting her up. She's in that fuzzy semi-conscious state where she just wants to keep her eyes closed, never use her own legs again and breathe in forever the bittersweet scent of that someone who's carrying her. But then a gust of cool night air hits her, wakes her completely and won't let her ignore any longer that her arms are locked around Damon's neck in a tight grip. Suddenly she's scared, really scared, he'll notice that she's not sleeping anymore and is letting herself be carried by him anyway. In panic, she does the only other thing that comes to mind and flinches forcefully in his arms and in a voice that is full of uncalled for harshness, she demands that he set her down, "this second, Damon!"  
"Suit yourself", he mutters a little bitterly while he sets her rather non-gently on her own feet.  
They're standing on the little square outside their hotel and seeing that there's no one on the streets besides them , it must be quite late already. However, it's bright enough for her to notice that his cheeks are flushed from all the dancing, the tips of his hair are plastered to his forehead with sweat and she suddenly has the insane impulse to press her hands to his face, to feel if he is as heated as he looks. This, of course, makes her even more angry with him, how her body always betrays her around him. So after losing control over that she goes right on to lose control over her tongue too.  
"So, I assume you had a good time this evening?" Her tone is scalding in the still of the night.  
His eyebrows mold themselves into his all too familiar "I'm confused right now" – expression.  
"What's the matter with you? If I recall correctly, you were the one who wanted to get distracted tonight. I take it, I wasn't allowed the same freedom then?" He takes nothing from her, his tone matching hers in acidity.  
"Wanting to be distracted is a lot different from having the time of your life," she hisses in frustration, at him and at her own silliness. "And it sure as hell doesn't imply getting all sweaty with dozens of women while your own brother is being held captive by the worst creature on this earth!" She regrets that last bit as soon as it's out of her mouth.  
His eyes take on that calculating look that she doesn't like to have directed at her one bit, because whatever follows will usually challenge her skills of self-command.  
"I'm going to ignore that attempt to make me feel guilty by bringing Stefan into the argument right now," he informs her. "Instead I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess: Are you possibly just mad at me because I didn't ask you to dance with me?"  
She scoffs, feeling a little unconvincing herself. "Are you out of your freaking mind, Damon?" Then she has to look down so that he won't see her eyes when she adds in a small, dejected voice that she hasn't heard from herself since that day in sixth grade when Matt, in a fit of prepubescent coolness, refused to go see a movie with her: "Why didn't you?"  
Immediately the anger leaves his eyes.  
"Elena", he sighs with almost unbearable sweetness, encircling her wrist tentatively with two fingers. "I didn't dance Tango with you because you're not ready, not because I don't want to. Take it from someone who was practically there when they invented that dance but Tango works best for messed up people. And yeah, I know you're life is not a fairytale, but you're still living your picture book relationship with Stefan and that's just not for Tango. You would have to know heartbreak, jealousy and all the stuff that one commonly calls sins to dance like that." Elena wants very much to tell him that she does know all this, that she's jealous of Susanne, constantly fighting dozens of forbidden urges now and doesn't know herself any longer. But of course she can't tell him that, so she's just silent some more, watching him with unblinking eyes.  
"I want to dance Tango with you, when you're ready but for now I would much more prefer Rumba with you. With Tango it's all about the fighting and challenging, Rumba is much sweeter and tender," he sounds careful all of a sudden. "Tango is a constant competition for control, but when you're dancing Rumba the guy does all the leading" his hand ghosts a tiny bit up her arm as his voice drops to a low murmur. "So, you see, Elena, all you would have to do is sway your hips and give in to me."


	3. Fever Nights

They reach the small town,(some name with P, or was it B? she already forgot.) around three o'clock on the next day, after driving for hours in awkward, uncomfortable silence and with averted eyes. Elena has resolutely watched the roadside through the open window, letting herself be dulled by the endless repetition of farmhouses, signboards and fences while she thought about Stefan. She tried to picture him as clearly as possible, his gentle voice, always present sympathy and comforting hugs and let the feeling of his loss fill her completely. By the time they park in front of the sheriff's office she hasn't thought about dancing with Damon in over an hour and her determination to get Stefan back is again the only driving force on her mind.  
The middle-aged, chubby man who greets them looks exhausted and still a little stunned by the fact that he, the sheriff for drunken bar fights and car accidents, suddenly has to investigate the slaughter of a whole family.  
"It's not pretty", is the first thing he says after he led them to his small office and they delivered their back-up story: Damon the investigator, Elena the young but driven trainee, complete with fake names. It's only thanks to his level of distraction that the sheriff doesn't question their lame explanations.  
"A whole family, father, mother, two grown up sons and a thirteen year old daughter. They were camping up near Hiawasee, on summer vacation by the looks of it. They probably never knew what hit them..." he trails off, rubbing his eyes tiredly.  
"The whole thing confuses me, to be honest. There definitely was a wolf involved, at least we could identify some of the hair and the biting marks as one, but some of the other wounds are strange. It looks like they've been inflicted by only two long barbs or teeth, must be some kind of cruel weapon. Of course, my daughter thinks it's this Edward Sullen guy or what's his name so we refer to them now as the "vampire bites", his short barking laugh is devoid of any humor as Damon and Elena carefully don't look at each other.  
"I have some pictures to show you but they're pretty gruesome, I have to warn you. They've been robbing me of sleep for over three days now." He shoots a glance at Elena who's face is unusual blank and tight.  
Damon's response is immediate. "Wait outside, Elena, or grab yourself a coffee. I'll get you again when the worst is over." He tries to not let his voice sound pleading, partly to keep up the charade and when she, predictably, opens her mouth to protest he harshly adds: "We've talked about this, Elena. You're still too young for certain things, I don't want any trouble with over ambitious childcare workers."  
She barely refrains from stomping her foot and slamming the door when she leaves the room but Damon doesn't feel bad for a second. Though he usually admires her determination not to back down from whatever evil happens to be thrown at her there are boundaries for everything and he's definitely setting them at her looking at pictures of her boyfriend's victims. Five minutes into the big pictured presentation he's positively relieved that he did , too.  
It's a close-up of the dead girl, although he couldn't be sure about that if it weren't for the face. It has the typical awkwardness, not quite fitting symmetry of a girl who just entered her teenage years and the dark brown hair at her temples bears still more semblance to fluffy childish hair. Her grey eyes are frozen open and, like the rest of her face, almost expressionless. Damon's not sure if that makes it better or worse than if it would have been showing fear and panic. The rest of her body is ripped apart, bloody and maybe it's just his vampires' sense for aesthetic murder but something deep inside of him recoils violently. Almost unconsciously he notices that the girl's earlobes are a little swollen and reddened as if the tiny golden studs are the first ones she ever got.  
"That's the worst", the sheriff rasps beside him. "We couldn't find one wolf hair on her body, which means that she was killed solely by that strange torture device, whatever the fucking hell it is. Normally we would check her for sexual abuse but with a- ….I mean, like that, it would be completely pointless."  
"I understand", Damon responds, his voice strangely clipped.  
When the screen finally turns black, the sheriff hands him the envelope that contains the note which was found beside the bodies. On a single slip of expensive looking paper it says in bold, elegant handwriting:  
Your brother is coming along nicely. Give my regards to the lovely Elena, be sure to tell her how much Stefan's missing her.  
"I don't quite know what to make of it", the sheriff admits. "Seems harmless enough if you ask me, like part of a letter. We only noticed it anyway because there was no blood on it although it was lying quite close to the bodies. So we figured it could be from the murderer but I personally think it's just a coincidence."  
"Yes", Damon agrees while his fist is brutally squeezing the note. "I'm sure you're right."  
Another couple of minutes pass with discussing what kind of warning should be issued to other campers and whether or not Damon has any information that will help solve the case. Seeing that he has none, Damon quickly compels him to forget their appearances and the whereabouts of the paper slip before they depart with a brisk handshake.  
It's not until he's standing in the hallway, empty, with a clear view of his parked car outside, equally as empty, that he realizes something's off. He does a slow spin, trying to find a trace of Elena when he notices the open door to the small kitchen of the sheriff. Which is adjacent to the office he just left, where he distinctively remembers another door leading to said kitchen. And it was open.  
"Shit. Merde. Cazzo. Kuso. Scheiße. Mierda. ROBHO. Skit. Ha siktir. Merda. SHIT!"  
He would probably go on like this forever, exhausting every vocabulary knowledge that still remains of his past journeys, if it weren't for the fact that he needs to be silent to listen for her. When he does, he almost wishes he could just go back to swearing, shut out this horrible whimpering sound that seems to come from the bathroom of the sheriff's office.

She's lying on the floor now, her cheek pressed to the cool, grey tiles while her hands are clenching in involuntary spasms, pinching her palms, scratching the knuckles with her nails. She has tried to throw up, but she could only dry heave, her breath accelerating until her throat seemed to close up so that nothing could come out but no air was coming in either. She must have passed out then, because she can't remember toppling over but now the toilet is looming over her and her body is covered in cold sweat. The picture of the dead girl is burning painfully behind her eyes, intersected with a memory of Stefan while they made love so very tenderly. Although she hasn't done so in a long time she suddenly yearns desperately for her mother, for someone who's embrace and scent was the ultimate and never failing solution to all troubles.  
"Mom", she whines. "Mommy." Her voice is getting higher without her intention, "Mom", resembles the fearful whimpering of a puppy now. "Mommy, Mommy."  
When she finally hears the clapping of the bathroom door there's not a hint of a doubt on her mind about who this will be. Sure enough, a fraction of a second later his hands are clasping hers, stilling their frantic movements. She let's herself be pulled into a sitting position and all but slumps into his ready embrace.  
"Damn it, Elena, why can't you ever do what I tell you!" he whispers hoarsely in her hair.  
It's rhetorical, of course, so she just keeps on pressing her face hard into his chest, barely holding back from reaching inside his button-up and slipping her arms inside his sleeves in the attempt to crawl into him, hide under his skin. Instead she thinks that his smell might not be as calming and familiar as her mother's but that it's as close as it could possibly get. There are deep, unfamiliar humming sounds coming out of his throat, together with an unceasing stream of "I got you, Elena. I'm here now. I got you", delivered in a foreign, soothing voice, and she shuts her eyes very tightly, trying to blank her mind from anything but this: "I'm here now, Elena."  
On the way to their next hotel, she's cowering on her front-seat, pulling her body as close together as she can manage while she tries to concentrate on the words of the radio host. Damon turned it on after she asked him to and now he's giving her quick, observing side glances which she doesn't mind, really, because he just seems to make sure that she's still lucid, not urging her to talk or purge or anything. Her breathing is slowly returning to her normal pace when the guy from the radio suddenly interrupts the ad about some stupid local car repair.  
"As we just got informed, the police is officially issuing a warning to campers in Chattahoochee National Forest after the murder of a fa-"  
He is quick to turn the radio off but Elena's already filling in the blanks and her body starts to shake again, that strange whimpering voice building up in the back of her throat.  
"Elena", he calls to her from the driver's seat, but she doesn't seem to hear him so he reaches over and slips his hand under her hair, pressing it in the nape of her neck as his thumb slides slowly up and down in a soothing movement. Feeling his hand there, at the place where he's proven to be so lethal to humans, including her own brother, and knowing that she is the one person who will never have a reason to be afraid of him touching that part of her is quite possibly the most reassuring feeling she ever had. The shivers subside, her breathing slows, air moving deeply in and out, calmed by the warm pressure of his palm and his thumb that is steadily tracing her throat, caressing the spot where he'd kill anyone but her.  
His hand stays there for the rest of the drive.  
Later in yet another hotel room, she feels so tired all of a sudden that she merely slumps on one of the single beds, not even bothering to change her clammy clothes before she curls herself together in fetal position and shuts her eyes and begins to list American states in order to keep her mind busy.  
When she awakes it must be hours later because it's dark in the room except for the light of a street lamp that is shining through a gap in the curtains. Her body is simultaneously cold and hot under the bedspread, the skin feels too tight for her body and her legs are moving restlessly as goose bumps erupt all over her in irregular intervals while the back of her throat feels dry and raspy. When she tries to get up to drink some water, her head starts throbbing, confused by the room which is swaying in front of her eyes and something menacing is moving in the darkness of the corners. She hasn't felt like this in years, but there is no mistaking that crappy state of her body: Elena has high fever. Knowing that doesn't make it any less awful though, and the obscure creatures in the dark don't go away despite the fact that she's telling herself that they're not real. Barely suppressing jumbled noises of distress, for the umpteenth time this day, her body shuddering with every tiny movement, Elena slowly feels her way towards the other bed where she's just able to make out his form.  
"Damon ?", she whispers when she feels the bedspread under her fingertips, but it's almost inaudible, the fever robbing her of any strength of voice.  
Feeling increasingly weak, she sinks on the edge of the bed and gropes for the switch of the small nightstand lamp in the hope that the light will do the job that her voice is no longer able to. Finally she locates the small button and the warm glow spreads over the bed, revealing Damon who is facing away from her. Only for a moment though, because he rolls on his back now, apparently disturbed, though unfortunately not woken, by the light. Elena has a sudden déjà-vu of a fairytale, the title long forgotten, where the princess is not allowed to look at her bewitched bear husband at night and when she inevitable does so anyway she discovers a beautiful prince instead of the beast. There used to be an illustration, showing the girl, her eyes wide with wonder, holding a dripping wax candle over the man in her bed. Elena had to look at it very carefully every time. It must be the fever talking, letting seem everything surreal, filling her with a sense of mystery as she looks at him. She's not even sure if this moment is real, has never been able to tell during a fever fantasy but she's spellbound by the sight all the same: his fingers are curled loosely beside his face, the cheeks flushed and beneath long lashes which are rimming delicate eyelids his eyes seem to move rapidly. His mouth is parted a bit, the shadow of beard stubble is darkening his jaw and at his temple, on the side where he slept on, the black hair is slightly damp and curly. He's still sleeping, breathing in and out in a deep, slow rhythm.  
He looks like a little boy she marvels, and he looks nothing like a boy at all.  
Shivers and goose bumps are still racing across her skin with fever, her ears filled with some kind of ringing noise when the urge to touch him becomes all at once unbearable.  
You can't touch him, her mind protests, he'll wake up! I'll be careful, she argues back, I'll just touch his cheek, just his cheek.  
Still not completely sure if she is even awake or just has a vivid and disturbing fever dream, she ever so slowly reaches out and carefully presses two fingers to the flushed skin where his cheekbone makes a sharp line in the dim light. He feels almost as heated as her own fever burning body. I just want to touch his jaw for a second, the voice in her mind speaks up again whereas the part that did protest is increasingly getting muted. As if compelled, her fingers slowly slide down and graze the dark stubble which scrapes pleasantly over her sensitive, feverish skin, reminding her of a kitten's tongue. I just have to see if the skin behind his ear is as soft as I imagine, and she simply obeys that voice now, sliding upwards and behind his ear shell where he feels as smooth as the insides of her own thighs. His hair now, there, where it's all curly and disheveled and when she feels the silky soft curls pressed between her fingers it's all she can do to not grab as much of it as possible with both of her hands. She's shaking uncontrollably now, her head burning up to a scorching degree, the room seems to cave in around her and there's that voice in her mind, urging her Touch him! Touch him! until she's unable to stop herself. With open palms she strokes over his forehead, his nose, traces his soft neck and presses, curls her fingers around the strong muscles and sinews of his shoulders and collarbones, her labored breath coming out with slight hissing noises.  
"Elena, what are you doing?" there is a sudden, confused sounding whisper in her ear and that's when she notices that she must've leaned down while touching him because her face is mere inches from his and the blue of his eyes is overwhelming when she looks up dazedly. There is a part of her that is acutely aware that now, at the very least, she has to get up and probably ask for some kind of medicine but the fever is still controlling her, filling her with a sense of unreality and telling her that she doesn't have to hold onto her morals if this a dream. So her eyes drop back to his mouth which is so tantalizingly close that she feels his breath on her skin, gets a glimpse of white teeth and the movement of his tongue.  
"No, no" he moans agonized when he realizes what the direction of her gaze means. "Don't do that, Elena", he grasps her waist with both hands and gasps when he notices her increased body temperature. "You have fever, you're not thinking clearly." He sets about pushing her back, but Elena starts to whimper again in that tone of hers that he just discovered today.  
"Just wanna taste, please, just one, want to, just one…" she rambles incoherently and presses her overheated, trembling body even closer, her eyes never leaving his lips. And God help him, but he has wanted to hear something like this from her for such a painfully long time now and he honestly can't stop his hands from slowly beginning to pull her the other way.  
Damon seems to be afraid to continue breathing, when she slowly opens her mouth, lets the tip of her tongue slip out and his own reaches out involuntarily to meet her halfway. The feeling of his soft, wet tongue circling hers is so all consuming that every other muscle collapses, causing her to sink down on his chest, closing the last shred of distance and melting their lips together. Nothing has prepared her for this, not his enforced, furious kiss on that cursed night and not the short, gentle one she pressed on his unmoving lips mere weeks ago. This is the first real kiss they ever share and the taste of him is causing her head to spin. Her tremors take hold of his body too, making them shudder in each other's arms as their tiny whimpering noises sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. Elena is almost utterly convinced by now that this is a fantasy, the agonizingly slow, tender slide of his tongue around hers couldn't possibly feel this right and dizzying, making every single cell of her body glow with pleasure. Clawing her hands in his body and having Damon's gripping her trembling hips so very tightly, she wishes desperately that this fever dream would never end.  
It takes a sudden cold pressure against her stomach to jolt her out of this frenzy. Apparently she has covered him completely with her body at some point and her shirt must have ridden up, exposing her to the cool metal of his belt buckle. She scrambles to stand up, swaying when she does, her lower lip trembling when she finally realizes that it was real, that all of it really just happened.  
"Damon? I didn't-, I thought I was sleeping, I mean-, is this real? So sorry.." she falls silent, trying to avoid his eyes, to avoid the hurt and desperation that will surely be there.  
"It's okay," he tells her, even if it takes him a little while to respond. "I understand," he's using that soothing voice again, though it sounds a little more detached now. "You have really high fever, Elena, I should have never-," he exhales forcefully. " It's my fault. Just go back to bed and let's forget about it"  
She's sure that she never hated herself more in all of her life, she's positively disgusted with herself for doing this to him, for letting him take all the blame, but she says nothing because the relief that he really believes she was out of it is equally as strong. While she crawls cautiously back under the cover he mutters something about being downstairs to ask for some medicine and then the door closes softly behind him. Elena tries to hold back the dry sobs that threaten to spill out of her throat when that small, awful voice begins to nag her again.  
You knew this was real and not your imagination, no use pretending otherwise. You wanted this to happen, hell, deep down you've been wanting this for a longer time than you care to admit.  
"No, no" she whispers croakily, "I didn't, I swear, I didn't, it was the fever!"  
That's a lie and you know it.  
And she feels tempted to literally wail, because she knows it's true. There is no more hiding the truth in her own mind and no ignoring of tonight's truth either. Because if everything about it was real, then the feel of his tongue on hers was also true. Suppressing the sobs is damn near impossible now for how can she go back to the way things were when she knows now kissing him feels so devastatingly right, equally arousing and calming while overshadowing in a few short minutes whatever she had believed to be bliss until now?  
She pulls the covers over her head, draws her legs up and burrows her face in the pillow, her hands balled into tight fists. She is the most thorough orphan on the planet, Bonnie and Caroline would have a hard time understanding her, there is no one with whom she could talk about it, not even really with herself.  
"Mom," she whispers silently in the dark. "Mommy".


End file.
